


To Survive

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mild Blood, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Unlikeable Side Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27194951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: Prompt:"Lambert/Eskel - "Why didn't you say something?"Lambert is no stranger to doing what he must to survive…
Relationships: Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 154





	To Survive

It didn’t matter how good you were. How professional. How skilled. If there was no work, there was no work. Sometimes the contracts just weren’t there. Bad weather drove monsters underground; more than one or two Witchers happening onto the same territory, or Alderman more willing to hire a bunch of thugs than a mutant beast. Prejudice was a bitch.

Either way, it was getting onto a few days since Lambert had eaten. The hunting wasn’t brilliant, and bad luck was dogging his every move; broken snares, crossbow bolts that missed by a mere inch and then shattered to pieces against stone. He almost decked the barkeep that threw a bowl of piss-tainted stew down in front of him as if he couldn’t fucking smell it. The cheaper taverns thought they could get away with it, because everything smelled of piss.

No one would hire a Witcher for ‘honest’ work; he was a damned good blacksmith, could sew and was good for lugging heavy stuff. But no, he was a mutant piece of shit. They didn’t want him anywhere. There was one sure way he could earn a quick bit of coin and his freakishness worked in his favour. It was becoming a pattern every autumn now. The contracts got sparse, the Aldermen more miserly, and Lambert headed to Novigrad.

He shouldered his way through the door of the Passiflora and locked eyes with the matron. She knew without having to ask and jerked her head towards a downstairs room. He shoved his swords, potions and last few bits of intact kit under the bed, and then bathed in the cold water brought to his door a few minutes later. He’d barely dried off before he got his first caller. A tall, fair-skinned man with ferrety blue eyes and a sweaty upper lip.

“You’re the Witcher?” He asked, a slight tremor in his tone.

“Don’t see another one nearby,” Lambert murmured. Still seated on the end of the bed, he didn’t react to the wrinkled scowl that passed over the man’s face, nor did he prompt for any further information until it became clear his john was battling with his morals. “So, what can I do you for?”

“I - ,” Ferrety began, but he trailed off. The silence settled again and Lambert was about to offer a list of options. “I – I want revenge.”

“Revenge?”

“Yes,” Ferrety – _no, Snivelly now, his voice was grating_ – said. “A Witcher embarrassed me at court. Defending the honour of his simpering troubadour. Absolute fop, a whore, a - .”

Lambert rubbed his eyes with a sigh. “The Witcher - white hair?”

“Yes. You know him?”

Lambert’s medallion was safely tucked inside one of his duffel bags. “I’m familiar. What did you fantasise about doing to this Witcher?” 

“I - ,” another hesitation and Lambert clenched his teeth. Get on with it, fuckface, I’m hungry. “I wanted to cane him, and – and – ,” bunched fists, “- then fuck him, I bet my cock would surpass that of his jester fool.” 

“Finally,” Lambert left the end of the bed and grabbed the cane from the dresser. It was cluttered with bottles of sweet smelling potions, soft silks and delicate paint brushes. None of it was meant for him, and no one ever requested it. When they saw a Witcher on the menu and selected it, there was usually only one flavour they were after. “This do?” 

Sweaty Lip hesitated, so Lambert flipped the cane over and offered the handle. “It’s reinforced through the middle, so it won’t shatter,” the Witcher turned, fingers tugging at the hem of his own shirt. “Clothed, naked?”

“Naked,” the answer was swift, his john appeared to feel slightly empowered by the cane in his hand. Lambert counted the ways he could murder the guy with it as he stripped his shirt, trousers and braies away. He didn’t even need to ask for a position, because a warm, sweat-slick hand pushed into his back as soon as he returned to the foot of the bed with a vial of oil. Some of them didn’t bother using it, but it was worth a punt. Sweaty Lip looked like the kind who didn’t want chafing on his cock. “Bend over.”

Lambert braced his hands on the bed and studied the floral pattern on the silk comforter, trying not to think about how much come had soaked into it over the last few decades. His client moved in his periphery, testing the rigour of the cane with an appreciative hum, and then the first strike fell. It cracked across Lambert’s shoulder blades and he almost bit through his tongue, unprepared.

The mumbling started quietly at first - “you mutant freak, how dare you talk to me, how dare you even look at me” - and grew gradually louder as the strikes came harder and faster. Credit where it was due; the guy had one hell of a clubbing arm. Every crack of the cane left a deep welt in Lambert’s already scarred skin, and he clenched his teeth as the pain blistered down his spine. It was slightly easier for a time when the blows progressed to his ass and the cane wasn’t falling against bone. The reprieve didn’t last long though; Lambert felt blood well out of the wounds and Sweaty hesitated. 

“That all you got?” Lambert went for an even tone and was slightly irritated by the crack in his throat.

“You’re bleeding…”

“I bleed a lot. I’m a Witcher. S’what I’m for. You’re paying for the time.”

They always needed permission, the snivelling ones. Lambert preferred it when they came in, beat him senseless and left without all this quivering. It was a business transaction and he didn’t need to engage.

Thankfully, with Lambert’s nonchalant permission, his client returned to his task with gusto. Yipping, growling and ‘ha-ing’ in delight as Lambert’s skin reddened, then split. Deep down, beneath the layer of emotionless disregard, he felt like he deserved this. His punishment for not being good enough to survive as a Witcher. He wasn’t even a good whore. Not like the pretty girls outside with their flowing lace, painted lips and long lashes. He was a sideshow attraction, a whipping boy for the depraved and the impotent.

The Witcher’s fingers curled in the silk as he swallowed the burning shame of it, ignoring the hand that appeared to snatch the oil and the stomach-curdling squelch of slick fingers palming down a stiff cock. 

He hated this bit. Clawing fingers pressed into the bleeding welts on his ass, spreading his cheeks for the blunt head of a cock he hadn’t been prepared for. It burned its way inside slowly and Lambert’s shoulders bunched. It wasn’t even impressive, but he was already tense and hurting, so it was difficult to force his muscles to ease. His client didn’t appear to care. “Oh, yes, you like that, slut? I know you do. Better than that weak little thing, isn’t it?” 

Lambert didn’t need to say anything. The whoreson was lost in his fantasy. He bottomed out with a delighted groan, nails clawing into Lambert’s abused flesh, and then began to thrust without buildup. Furious, deep, without rhythm. His thumbs shoved through the cuts he’d inflicted with glee, mumbling through a litany of filth punctuated with demeaning names that Lambert tuned out. He grunted only when a fist managed to ball in his short hair, and he allowed his face to be shoved down into the bed, nose immediately overwhelmed by the smell of come and sweat permeating the sheets beneath him. 

There was one small mercy. The asshole didn’t bother trying to jerk Lambert off. Sometimes they insisted he should come, only to be sorely disappointed when he wasn’t even hard after their abuse. He’d tried to find a potion to falsify it, but there’d been some rather dodgy mishaps in the bowels of Kaer Morhen. There were only so many times Vesemir would believe he was testing out a new Moonshine recipe. There was a thought. The humiliation of the others knowing what he did when he was hungry enough… _yeah, fuck that noise._

Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes as the pain became more acute, nails biting deeper, cock splitting tears in sensitive flesh. He’d deny until his dying breath that it was the shame that hurt him the most. Self-disgust that built a sickening pressure in his chest, until all he could think of was snatching the man behind him and hurling him into a wall. It was a relief when the asshole finished with a whine, and Lambert swallowed the bile as his ass filled with come.

“Your coin, beast,” the purse jingled as it hit the floor and the nobleman walked away, fingers tucking his softening cock away. And then he was gone. Lambert sat on the edge of the bed, wincing as his blisteringly sore ass made contact with the cool silk sheets, and stared at the money. He wanted to scream. Wanted to charge out the door and crush the man’s skull between his hands, but he needed this lifeline. The madame would never let him back if he made a habit of seeking retribution on his customers.

So Lambert retrieved the money and cleaned up for a couple more clients that evening. The first wanted to flog him while his wrists were chained to the wall, and the second picked up one of the curved blades from the dresser. Usually Lambert didn’t bother with Swallow after these encounters but, as that particular nobleman left, he searched through his bags with shaking hands.

_One more. One more and he could leave._

His back was to the door when it opened. The smell of seed and sweat was clogging his senses, otherwise he would’ve been prepared when he turned around.

“What can I do you for?” He asked with a tired sigh, turning on the spot to -

His throat constricted and his heart plummeted through the bottom of his chest as he met a pair of familiar amber eyes. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. 

When his chest finally loosened just a fraction, he managed to rasp a single word. “Eskel.”

“Little wolf,” said that honey-smooth rumble; free of judgement, but saturated in concern. And that was just worse. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”


End file.
